Beware This Boy (23 page)

He was panting as if he’d been running. Mrs. Swann’s hat had tilted over her forehead and a halo of blood was spreading around her head.

“Don’t think about that now. Get her out of here. The shelter. I’ll take her down to the shelter.”

He grabbed the hall rug and wrapped her in it. His grandfather’s mac and old cap were hanging on the coat stand. Trembling, Brian put them on.

“If anybody sees me, they’ll think it’s Granddad.”

Mrs. Swann was frail and small, but she was now a dead weight and he had to heave to get her over his shoulder.

He stumbled towards the back door, his knees shaking so hard he could hardly walk.

“You would have told. I know you would have. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to pull you like that.”

He managed to open the door a crack and peeked out. Nobody was in sight and a thin rain had started, darkening
the already gloomy day. He kicked open the door and, making himself walk briskly, he strode down the path to the air-raid shelter. Now his burden seemed light, although the smell was sickening in his nostrils.

There was a green chenille curtain hanging across the far corner of the shelter. Behind it, offering some cramped privacy, was a chamber pot, a jug of water, and a pile of extra blankets. There was just room between the blankets and the wall to dump the body, although he had to fold her up like a rag doll. He pulled away the rug and loaded the grey blankets around and on top of her.

“I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t have walked in like that,” he whispered. “Look at it like this. A bomb could have dropped on you. We don’t know what God’s plan was for you, do we. You’ve lived your life. Mine’s just starting.”

He dropped the curtain. Nothing looked disturbed. Good. He just hoped they wouldn’t be using the shelter tonight.

He pulled his granddad’s cap tightly onto his head. “Come on. Walk casually.”

He went back to the house carrying the bloodied rug, the rain wetting his face.

When he got inside, Brian felt his strength leave his body like air out of a balloon. He could have lain down and gone to sleep right there and then. But he had to clean up.

He filled the kitchen sink with water and dumped the rug in. The water turned pink immediately. Then he got a wash rag, mop, and bucket and went back to the hall. Bloody hell. He’d been standing close enough to the old lady to catch some of the blood spatter, and his jersey was sticky all down the front. And the walking stick. He had to clean the walking stick. He pulled off his jersey and used it to wipe the stick, then replaced it in the stand. He was trying to move as fast as he could but the sensation was like moving through water.
Everything was an effort and he couldn’t get his thoughts in order.

He started to wash the floor … no, wait, he mustn’t be found here in his undervest with the blood-stained jersey at his feet. And the timers. He had to get them out of the living room.

He scrambled up to his room, using hands and feet as if he were a dog. He shoved the jersey in the shopping bag with the other stuff. He didn’t dare spend time washing himself off but he couldn’t see any stains on his skin – his clothes had absorbed the blood. But everything smelled bad. Had some of her shit got on his trousers when he picked her up? He checked frantically but couldn’t see any. Maybe it was on the jersey. He’d have to throw it out as soon as possible. Fortunately his gran had given him a couple of extras. He grabbed one from the drawer and pulled it on. The shit smell lessened but not that much.

He went back downstairs, slipping on the last two steps in his haste and banging his tailbone painfully. On the linoleum was a large red stain flecked with bits of whitish grey stuff that must be brain matter. He dragged over the bucket and started to mop it up, trying not to gag.

The rage that had overtaken him seemed far off. He could hardly remember hitting Mrs. Swann. Had he always had such a temper? He’d been angry at times like anybody else, but he’d never lost control in this way before. But war changed men. The timid became bold and the apparently brave crumpled in the face of danger. That’s what they said.

But you haven’t been at war
, said a cold voice in his head.
She was an old, helpless woman who never did you any harm
.

He whimpered. Mrs. Swann had given him sweeties when he was a child and even a pair of socks she’d knitted herself when he had a birthday. She’d always been kind and interested in his welfare. For a moment he experienced a rush of
such grief and remorse that it actually made him feel as if he would collapse.

Maybe she wasn’t dead
.

He considered making a dash for the shelter just to make sure, but he might be seen. Besides, he knew she was dead. His act was irrevocable.

He heard a quick three taps at the door, then the key in the lock and Beattie came in.

“Brian,” she exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

He was surprised how easily he could lie to her. “Gran, I’m so sorry. I tripped and spilled my tea all over everything. I’m so sorry.”

“That’s all right, Bri. What did you do with the rug?”

“I put it in the sink to soak.”

“That was the right thing to do.” She began to take off her headscarf and her coat. “Come on, cheer up, it’s not the end of the world. That rug’s had a lot more than that spilled on it over the years.” She sniffed. “What’s that bad smell?”

“Oh, Jackie dropped in this morning. He must have stepped in some dog dirt.”

“Ugh. Why wasn’t he at school?”

“He was skipping off, I suppose.”

“I’m worried about that boy. He’s not himself at all.”

She tidied her hair in the mirror of the hall stand. Their eyes met.

“Bri … should you be downstairs?”

“Please, Gran. I’m going stir-crazy.”

“Oh dear, we can’t have that. Just stay away from the windows, there’s a good boy. And the door wasn’t locked. We must be so careful.” She picked up her basket. “I did well with the veg. I went over to Stebbings and he had a new delivery of potatoes in. I bought some extra carrots as well. I told him I was shopping for Mrs. Swann, so I’ll have to give her a
bundle in case she says something.” She bent down. “What’s this?” She fished out a card that had got shoved under the coat stand. “Why, it’s one of Maisie’s Peace Pledge cards. How did that get here?”

“She must have dropped it through the letter slot and it got swept over there.”

Beatrice put the card in her pocket. “If this war goes on much longer, I’ll join myself. Anyway, I’ll just pop out and take her the carrots or she’ll be coming over. Won’t be long.”

Don’t. Don’t go
. He swallowed hard so he wouldn’t actually shout those words to her. He heard the back door click shut and he rushed to the window to see what she was doing. She crossed the back garden, went past the shelter, and opened the gate of Mrs. Swann’s garden, where she vanished up the path out of sight. He waited. There was a bread knife on the draining board by the sink and he picked it up. For what? He didn’t allow himself to contemplate the answer to that. Within a few minutes Beatrice reappeared. She was walking calmly down the path, not running, not looking bewildered or afraid.
Go past the shelter. Don’t go in there
. She didn’t, and in another minute she was at the house.

“Did Mrs. Swann like her carrots?” Brian set the knife back down

“She wasn’t home. I left them on the counter.” Beatrice shook her head. “She’s getting a bit doddery in her old age. She’d left her kettle on the stove. Good thing I came in when I did. It had practically boiled dry.”

Beatrice went to the sink and started to squeeze the rug. “You did make a mess of this, didn’t you.”

“Sorry.”

Beatrice glanced over her shoulder at him, then came over and drew him into her arms. “It’s not important, Brian. It’ll wash out.”

For the rest of the afternoon Tyler worked non-stop, interviewing as many people as he could before the end of their shift.

A very clear picture emerged of a factory ridden too hard. Morale was low and it wasn’t just because of the explosion, which all the workers thought had been an accident. The dead girls had been well liked, and both Tyler and Cudmore had to proffer handkerchiefs at regular intervals. Mary Ringwald-Brown’s name came up frequently. A shadow had descended over her that she wasn’t easily going to dispel.

She herself refused to be interviewed. She claimed to have said everything there was to say in the canteen interrogation – note the word – and unless he was going to charge her with the crime of being a natural woman, he had no legal grounds to insist on her presence. Cudmore delivered this message, voice neutral, manner neutral. He’d have made a good diplomat, Tyler thought. As for himself, he thought the woman’s attitude was provocative but he didn’t want to give her fuel for her fire by throwing his weight around. He decided to leave her be for the time being.

“We should stop soon,” he said to the secretary, who was looking bleary-eyed. “How many more people are there to see?”

“That’s the last of those who came in today, sir. I shall send word to the absentees and ask them to come in tomorrow.”

“Mr. Cudmore, you are a brick.”

“Thank you, sir. I shall have these notes ready for you by tomorrow morning.”

Tyler got up. “I’ll go and see how my constable has made out.”

Eagleton was covered in dust and looked hot and tired, but he’d accomplished a lot. He’d brought in a table and was standing in front of it putting the shards of the papier-mâché pots
together. A neat pile of debris was beside the shattered bench.

“You look like a desert rat, Eager. Time for a cuppa, I’d say.”

“Thank you, sir. This dust gets in your throat something awful.”

“Did you get some lunch?”

“I did, sir. A tasty bowl of veggie soup.” He removed his glasses and put them in his pocket. “I’m afraid there’s not a lot to report, sir. There’s too much damage to the pots to determine if they were originally faulty. As you thought, the explosion seems to have occurred right here.” He pointed to a spot directly in front of the stool once occupied by Tess Deacon. “This person got the brunt. There were a few remnants of her tray but I would say that all the other fuses in the pot were ignited. That in turn must have set off the fuses in the magazine box, which was at the end of the bench.”

Eagleton had placed markers at the spots where the girls had been seated. He continued: “The injuries each girl sustained are consistent with their proximity to the primary explosion. Miss Sumner got caught by flying shrapnel from the fuses in the box.”

On his table he’d also put various ragged pieces of cloth, each labelled. Tyler went over to have a look. All were stained with blood.

“As best I could, I matched the material with the position of the operative at the bench,” said Eager. “They’re all scraps, sir. Nothing identifiable except for a bit of a collar with an initial embroidered on it. Letter A, so I’m assuming it was part of Audrey Sandiland’s uniform.”

There were five black felt shoes lined up.

“I haven’t matched the slippers to the owners, sir. I haven’t got information on the identifying characteristics of the women. Shoe sizes, that is. I’m assuming the missing shoes went with the victims.”

“Thank you, lad, you have been most conscientious. I take it nothing has turned up that is unexpected?”

“No pins or jewellery, sir. Nothing metal at all. I’ve sieved through everything. No accelerants to indicate arson.” He gave Tyler a shy grin. “That course you sent me on was useful. First thing I looked for.”

He held out his hand. “I did find two loose buttons. They’re regulation issue, so I assume they came from the overalls. But there was also this.” He pointed to a small silver medallion.

“Looks like a Saint Christopher medal.”

“Isn’t he the patron saint of lost causes,” said Eagleton.

“You’re right about that, lad. Put them in an envelope and let’s store what we can in boxes. If any boffins from Special Branch want to verify your findings, they can. I’ll tell the management; they can get to work on repairing the area by tomorrow.”

“If you’ll excuse me saying so, I for one would like to see us getting back at the bloody Jerries as soon as possible. Only wish I could be fighting them myself.”

Tyler patted him on the arm. “I’m not sure you could hit the side of the pyramids, Eager. But leave this for now. Any tittle-tattle you picked up from the canteen?”

“No, sir. I did sit myself at one of the tables but the girls were all chatting about film stars. I tried to steer the conversation round to the explosion but they said they didn’t want to talk about it. They’re taking up a collection for the funerals and they dunned me for half a crown.”

“Include it in your expenses.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, sir. It’s a private donation.” He gave a self-deprecating cough. “Might I have permission to go to the pictures tonight if there is no further work for me, sir? There’s a George Formby film on and I haven’t had a chance to see him before. Everybody says he’s very funny.”

“I might come with you, Eager. I haven’t seen him either. A laugh would do us good.”

“Yes, sir.” The constable couldn’t hide the expression of chagrin that flitted across his face.

Tyler chuckled. “I get it. You want to go with a lass, not your old inspector. Did you ask her already?”

“Sort of, sir. As it turns out, I was acquainted previously with one of the girls. Just before the war I happened to be in Birmingham and we met at a roller-skating rink.” He grinned. “We ran into each other literally. She’s very good, but I was a beginner.”

“Well, before you go off gallivanting there’s a bit of work I’d like you to do. If you come with me to my pantry, I’ll give you the list. You can use the telephone at Steelhouse Lane to make the calls. Don’t be put off by the desk sergeant. He thinks we country cops don’t understand modern technology. Go along with him – it’ll make him happy.”

Tyler was thinking of turning in. He wasn’t particularly tired but the station was empty, Alf Mason wasn’t back yet, and Eagleton had gone off to the flicks with his roller-skating friend. Tyler had hurried off from Whitchurch without bringing anything to read, and except for newspapers, the station seemed to have a dearth of reading material. He was about to go in search of something when the door opened and Mason came in. He’d removed his coat and hat downstairs but he looked damp and cold.